I do not think the afterlife
is dark, but blind as Arctic
blizzards, howling wolf-lorn
nights where warmth
still nestles in hope's breast-
pocket amidst immensities of white,
a tundra vast and solitary and stark:
I do not think the afterlife
is dark, but white, diaphanous
as fumes from dry-ice,
breath of glaciers,
with only frozen snow
to quench the thirst
and feed the hungry heart.
Saying the words, 'after life',
I hear white noise of polar winds
that gnaw the bark from monkish pines,
fret the peregrinating mast:
the negated colour white
conceals one radiant last spark,
while somewhere beyond vision spins
infinity's lost maze of stars,
the deep blue hum of souls
in transit, galactic question marks.
i.m. Professor Boris Stepanovich Christa